


Tenderness and Pleasure

by Kyra_Bane



Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [11]
Category: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2016), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Honeymoon, Just Married, Kinda Without Plot, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, M/M, No Zombies Here Though, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wet Clothing, Wet Clothing Kink, What Happened in Malta (The Old Guard)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane
Summary: Yusuf and Nicolò (finally!) honeymoon in Malta.Not a zombie in sight, a house all to themselves and all of time spread out before them…Well, what else are they going to get up to?Coda/epilogue to my long fic: Pride and Prejudice and Immortals (and Zombies). I'd say you don't have to read that to understand this (and you probably don't???) but it might make some parts make a bit more sense.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930153
Comments: 11
Kudos: 107





	Tenderness and Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pride and Prejudice and Immortals (and Zombies)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185111) by [Kyra_Bane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane). 



> kinktober prompt 10 (god i'm so behind): see-through wet/white clothes
> 
> did you all THINK i would write a pride and prejudice au and NOT have a mr darcy in his wet white shirt scene???? _(who do you think i am???)_
> 
> anyway it comes along pretty late in this fic because i got lost in all the feelings again which is why this thing is eight thousand words long
> 
> so much for catching up!! 😅

They had been married for six months before Yusuf finally set eyes on Malta’s shores. Not that they had intended to take so long in their arrival, of course; a zombie attack – quite rare in Tunis, or so they had been led to believe – had derailed the end of their small ceremony, and it had taken a while to trace the outbreak back and do their best to eradicate the threat.

Now, Yusuf stood at the bow of the boat, Nicolò pressed up behind him, as the island came into view. His _husband’s_ hands rested on his waist and Yusuf tilted his head back to fall against Nicolò’s shoulder.

“You do think they will be alright without us?”

Nicolò rolled his eyes, but the fondness in his expression was easy enough to read. “Yes, Yusuf,” he replied, for perhaps the hundredth time since they had waved goodbye to Nile at the docks. “Well, Nile will be, and that is what matters.”

It was all that mattered – but it did not convince Yusuf any. Six months, the five of them had remained together, cutting down zombie hordes, investigating any leads, and Nile’s proximity to Le Livre – Sebastien – appeared to be driving her to distraction, her enduring anger barely contained. Yusuf understood, of course, and had suggested she join them, but she had declined.

They would make the decision upon his and Nicolò’s return, she had reminded him; never mind that the plan had been put in place when Yusuf had thought he and Nicolò would simply marry and then immediately depart for Malta, return in a month or two.

Once the boat was docked, they disembarked, making their way onto the island proper. Nicolò had arranged ahead for a small carriage; he had no servants, he said, but there was a family who maintained the house for him, when he was away. They had done so for generations and Yusuf hoped they would for generations yet to come.

He already liked the island. They climbed into the carriage and Nicolò threw an arm about Yusuf’s shoulders, a touch that still made Yusuf so _aware_ of him, and yet it was casual for them now, comfortable. Yusuf skimmed his lips down Nicolò’s throat.

They had spent plenty of time alone together, of course, and as newlyweds, could barely keep their hands off one another. Still, Yusuf had yet to enjoy Nicolò the one way he most wanted to – Nicolò had been adamant they save that particular act for this place, this trip.

And that had been all well and good in the short run-up to the wedding, and Yusuf was absolutely willing to respect his husband’s wishes, would never pressure him, only…

Only he _wanted_ Nicolò still, in every way that counted. Yes, they would live for an incredibly long time, but putting this off for a special occasion had been beginning to feel like unnecessary suffering. Nicolò had kept Yusuf’s mind off it for the most part. His hands, his mouth – Yusuf knew only endless pleasure under his touch.

He slid a hand over Nicolò’s thigh and Nicolò let out a strangled noise. They had restrained themselves on the ship over, though that had not been all that long, in order to enjoy this on the other side. It just made Yusuf itch for it – he was not certain whether he wanted Nicolò to take control or pin him down and take him.

“We are close, hayati,” Nicolò murmured and Yusuf nodded, looked up into glass-green eyes.

“And then?”

“And then?” Nicolò repeated.

Yusuf grinned. “And then will you fuck me over the dining room table, my love?”

Nicolò sputtered. Yusuf laughed in response. His immortality – or whatever it was – framed things differently already. It had been more than eleven years since his death; although he still looked three and thirty, he no longer was. 

Besides, he liked the way Nicolò blushed when he said ‘fuck’. Andromache used words much worse, much more often, and Nicolò never gave anything away. But Yusuf had said it to him, once, when Nicolò had Yusuf in his lap and was stroking him slowly enough that Yusuf knew he would not come for hours – and Nicolò had flushed and shuddered and pushed Yusuf back on the bed to move his hand in quick, tight strokes.

“After the bedroom,” Nicolò promised and Yusuf hummed, leant up to give him a faint kiss. 

“I suppose I would be amenable to that,” he replied.

The carriage stopped near the town square and Nicolò was out first, chatting to the driver before he turned to look at Yusuf. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” he said. “Elias has offered to bring our things.” 

Yusuf shook his head. They had not brought much with them – Nicolò had assured him that the house was well-stocked – and besides, he wanted them to be alone, now. “Thank you,” he said to Elias, who smiled in answer. “We’ll be fine to do it ourselves.”

They took their bags and Nicolò grabbed Yusuf’s hand before he led them through the winding streets of the town. They reminded Yusuf of London, in a way; he shivered and Nicolò looked back, a question already forming in his eyes.

Yusuf shook his head. Nicolò had read many of the letters now, but not all, and it was not the entire truth, of course. Not that he had lied; only, he had written them _to_ Nicolò, for him. Sometimes he had wanted to spare Nicolò the crushing abandonment, the despair. 

They would talk about it one day, he had no doubt. The same as Nicolò would eventually tell him every story he could remember from his life, no matter what light it cast him in, and Yusuf knew he would love him all the same.

The houses in Malta were all pushed close together, all so tall, and as they approached one, a middle-aged woman pushed off from the doorway and smiled. She eyed their clasped hands and, if anything, her smile widened further – she held out a set of keys.

“Signor di Genova,” she said and Nicolò slowed their approach. He smiled at her.

“Mrs Zammit.” He let go of Yusuf long enough for her to wrap him in a hug and Yusuf watched with a grin – it was rare to see Nicolò so open with anyone.

She turned to Yusuf after and eyed him critically before she spoke. “You must be Mr Al-Kaysani,” she said. “Our dear Nicolò has never brought anyone else here, you know.”

Yusuf glanced, once, to his husband. His understanding was that the Zammits – or the family who had taken that name, now – knew exactly what Nicolò was, which meant she knew that Andromache and Sebastien had not been here, either.

Yusuf understood the waiting, now. What had happened could not – would not – touch them here. Nicolò was refusing to let it.

“I did not,” he replied and was frightfully aware he looked the lovesick fool he knew himself to be. “It does appear to be the perfect place for our honeymoon.”

Mrs Zammit laughed at that, pressing the keys into Nicolò’s hands. “Yes, yes, I should leave you both to it. Make sure you come for dinner once, at least. My dear Marija is visiting the island next week, with her family – you should meet her, you know.”

Nicolò nodded. “I shall,” he said, solemnly, and Yusuf realised Marija would be the woman they trusted after, to guard the house and their secret.

She kissed Nicolò on both cheeks, offering Yusuf a small wave before she departed, and then Nicolò tugged Yusuf over to the door. He struggled with the key for a moment but once unlocked, the door swung open easily, revealing a beautiful house that was terribly well-maintained.

Yusuf wanted to explore, wanted to run his gaze over the high ceilings, the hidden alcoves and doors he knew he would come to know like the back of his own hand. But Nicolò had shut the door, dropped his bag, and pulled Yusuf back against him before he could take another step further inside.

He rolled his hips and Yusuf dropped his bag in turn. “Here?” he asked, without looking. One of Nicolò’s hands was splayed against his stomach and Yusuf pressed it more firmly down.

“Not that,” Nicolò said. “But I cannot make it to the bedroom without having you come undone at least once.”

Yusuf laughed. Not to make fun, of course not; he laughed because it drained some of his tension away, some of the edge that had built up between them during the journey.

“Nicolò, at least have the good sense to lock the door.”

Nicolò cursed against Yusuf’s throat, where he had been busy running his tongue, and then abruptly let go, spinning around to get the key in the lock. Yusuf took his chance and when he heard the tumbler drop into place, he plastered himself against Nicolò’s back, pressing him up against the door.

“How thick do you think it is?” he whispered in Nicolò’s ear. He got a hand between his husband and the wood, rubbed his fingers over Nicolò’s crotch. Nicolò groaned.

“Thick enough,” he replied.

Yusuf could not argue with that. He stepped back long enough to get Nicolò’s jacket off – ridiculous, in this heat – and then he was back, sucking marks onto the back of Nicolò’s neck, rubbing over the growing bulge in his pantaloons. Nicolò braced himself against the door, forehead pressed against the wood, and it was easy for Yusuf to ignore his own need when Nicolò was rolling his hips into his hand, letting out little gasping breaths every time Yusuf touched him.

He had thought, once they were married, that some of this desperate need might wear off. Not that he wished it to – it was only he had been told that it did. Everyone he had known who was married, even if they were deeply in love, seemed to fall out of desire eventually, or at least that all-encompassing desire that ate into every waking moment. 

Yusuf had yet to notice the feeling wane. Sometimes he feared that _that_ was why Nicolò was putting off taking him; that it _would_ wane once that desire had been fulfilled. And yet, every second he looked at Nicolò led to some new revelation, enflamed some new appetite, and sometimes Yusuf feared, actually, he would never be sated.

Nicolò moaned when Yusuf squeezed him and Yusuf chuckled against his skin.

Perhaps feared was not quite the right word.

Yusuf considered getting Nicolò’s pantaloons open, but this was working, for both of them – Nicolò thrust his hips forward and Yusuf stroked him more firmly, squeezed and rolled him in his hand. Nicolò whined in the back of his throat and Yusuf slid his other hand up under Nicolò’s shirt. 

“I know you want me in our bed,” Yusuf said, terribly presumptive of him, as he had never been to this house before, but it had the intended effect, which was to have Nicolò groaning at the thought. “But the reason I said about the dining room table is because I assumed we would not get there. I believed we would not be able to keep our hands to ourselves, that you would push me down, bend me over and–”

Nicolò groaned. “We have not exactly kept our hands to ourselves,” he said, breathing out a laugh, and Yusuf rewarded him with another squeeze. There was a wet patch on the front of his pantaloons, growing slowly bigger, and Yusuf was torn when the sudden urge to spin Nicolò around and secure his mouth over it shuddered through him.

“Well, no. I do not think you expected me to.”

“Of course not.” Yusuf pinched one of Nicolò’s nipples and Nicolò gasped. “But,” he managed, valiantly, “I want to take my time. You deserve your first time to be soft and gentle and as comfortable as I can make it. You deserve everything I could possibly give you, Yusuf.”

Yusuf stilled his hand, pressing his face to the back of Nicolò’s neck. Sometimes, when he said things like that, it was as though he stole all the breath from Yusuf’s lungs. 

One of Nicolò’s hands landed over his, over the one still pressing against Nicolò’s chest. “Alright, cuore mio?”

“I love you,” Yusuf said and perhaps it came out a little shaky, but who would notice?

Nicolò moved and Yusuf let go so he could turn, so he could pull Yusuf in and kiss him slowly. When Yusuf rocked their hips together, the urgency began to build again, this time in them both, and Nicolò tore his lips away to kiss down Yusuf’s throat.

They rubbed against each other, not willing to let go long enough to unfasten pantaloons, reveal more skin. Nicolò captured Yusuf’s mouth again, almost biting, and Yusuf grasped his hips. Nicolò’s back hit the door and he groaned.

“Do you think you will…?”

“Like this?” Yusuf grinned, baring his teeth. It had only been a few days since they had last been together in this way, and yet it felt like years.

“Yes.” Nicolò reached around and grabbed Yusuf’s rear, and there was not an inch between their bodies now, though the sensation was still dampened by all the clothing they both wore.

“Of course,” Yusuf said. He kissed down Nicolò’s jaw, sucked at the sensitive spot under his ear, and Nicolò’s fingers tightened.

Yusuf was so close – he knew they both were – and Nicolò let out small, hitching noises as he chased his orgasm, rutting against Yusuf, now. Yusuf left a ring of marks around his throat, each fading as he moved to the next. “Come on, hayati,” he murmured. “Come for me, here, and you can do _whatever_ you’d like to in that bed.”

Nicolò moaned, one hand moving up to grasp the back of Yusuf’s neck, and they kissed before Nicolò came, with a groan and a full-body shudder. Yusuf scattered kisses over his husband’s face, gasping when Nicolò got a hand between them and ran his knuckles over Yusuf’s cock.

“The bedroom,” he managed, but Nicolò shook his head.

“I want to see you first,” he said. He struggled with the fastenings of Yusuf’s pantaloons at first, hands still faintly trembling from his orgasm, and Yusuf did not bother to help, too busy running his fingers up and down Nicolò’s back.

Nicolò took Yusuf’s cock in his hand and Yusuf let his head fall to Nicolò’s shoulder. Pre-come slicked the way and Yusuf panted against Nicolò’s neck as he stroked him in a tight grip. He would not last long – and he did not; besides, Nicolò knew well enough how to take him apart by now. Yusuf came with a gasping breath, clutching at Nicolò, and Nicolò hummed at the sight, apparently unconcerned by the mess all over his hand.

“Bellissimo,” Nicolò murmured and Yusuf rubbed his nose against Nicolò’s throat.

“Take me to bed,” he replied.

***

They tumbled onto the mattress, Yusuf’s pantaloons still open, Nicolò’s shirt discarded somewhere by the stairs. Neither had removed their boots but Nicolò was licking into Yusuf’s mouth, hands wandering, and Yusuf found he did not have it in him to care.

Nicolò pulled back to look at him and Yusuf thought if death – true death – came for him then and there, then he would die the happiest man in the world. He had never beheld such passion, such _care,_ in another’s gaze, and to have the full force of it directed at him was almost too much.

Almost.

Because even as Nicolò looked upon him as though he were the most precious, priceless thing on Earth, Yusuf knew he looked upon Nicolò in much a similar way. He knew it now, when he smiled indulgently and Nicolò’s cheeks turned pink; his gaze faltered, and danced away, down the length of Yusuf’s still-clothed torso.

“We need fewer clothes,” Nicolò said, tugging at the hem of Yusuf’s shirt.

“We need supplies, do we not?” Yusuf said and Nicolò let out a curse.

He pushed Yusuf back against the mattress, kissing his lips over and over. “Just… wait here,” he said between kisses. Yusuf giggled into it because he knew they had left everything in their bags. The same bags, in fact, they had both abandoned by the door. 

Eventually, Nicolò pulled himself away. “I will be back in a moment.”

Yusuf snorted as his husband all but bolted from the room. He took to removing his boots, the rest of his clothes, and managed to get a good look around before he heard Nicolò’s returning footsteps on the stone stairs. 

The bedroom was beautiful, same as the rest of the house, and Yusuf sat back down on the bed, eyes moving from the paintings on the walls – some of which he suspected were authentic, and therefore _very_ costly – to the oak armoire, to the tall window which let in the late afternoon sun.

Nicolò appeared, again, in the doorway, his chest heaving at his exerted effort. Yusuf laughed and parted his legs, looked up at him.

“You are good to me, habibi,” he said.

Nicolò crossed the room in two short strides, stepping between Yusuf’s legs. He dropped the container of oil on the bed beside him and dug his fingers into Yusuf’s curls. Yusuf arched up into the touch.

“If I had known how long it would take, I would probably have done this sooner,” Nicolò said, as though it had been some great hardship, to have him almost every night with the exception of _this._

Yusuf shook his head. Nicolò did not move his hands and it tugged his hair pleasantly. 

“If it had been _too_ long, I would have taken matters into my own hands,” he replied. “But I would always wait for you, Nicolò.”

“You have already had to wait too long,” Nicolò replied, some of the light in his eyes dimming.

Yusuf reached for his hips and tugged him even closer.

“Not here,” he said and Nicolò’s hands tightened in his hair. “None of that belongs here. Yes?”

“Yes,” Nicolò replied and leant down for a kiss. 

It was almost chaste, a kiss to seal a promise – although, Yusuf knew, it was not a promise either of them would keep. He would still wake from nightmares, if not tonight, then tomorrow or the next day, and Nicolò would still carry around the heavy burden of his completely unjustified guilt.

Still, they could turn their backs on all of that for a few hours. 

The kiss turned into something deeper, Nicolò cradling Yusuf’s face in his hands as his tongue swept through his mouth. Yusuf pressed up against him, and although he rather liked the slightly depraved feeling of Nicolò’s pantaloons against his skin, he wanted his husband naked.

So, he pulled away, leaning back on his elbows on the bed. He was not hard again but his cock stirred against his thigh as Nicolò’s eyes traced the length of him.

“You should hurry, tesoro,” Yusuf said. He picked up the bottle of oil and skimmed his other hand down his chest. “I would hate to do this alone.”

Nicolò emitted a choked groan and then he was doing his best to pull off his boots without falling over. Yusuf smiled to himself and uncapped the oil. He had done this before – not that he had told Nicolò that titbit. He had wished to be prepared, that was all, and so he had slid a finger or two inside himself.

After all, he had been relatively sure he would enjoy the act, but one could not know for certain until one tried. When he had managed to get two fingers as deep as he could, had stroked himself to completion with them still inside, he had known it would be enjoyable.

More than enjoyable, with someone who knew what they were doing.

For now, he dribbled oil over the index finger of his right hand and planted his feet on the bed, tilting his hips upwards. He stroked around his hole, no pre-amble aside from this, and Nicolò let out a wounded noise.

“Yusuf,” he said, “Hayati, ya albi, marito mio…” 

“Hurry _up,_ Nicolò,” Yusuf replied, and circled his hole again before he dipped just the tip of his finger inside. 

Nicolò stumbled out of his pantaloons and then he was on his knees at the edge of the bed, staring at where Yusuf was slowly rocking his finger inside. Yusuf laughed breathlessly and dropped his head back onto the mattress. He had done this more than once, in truth, and had imagined he would be more relaxed about it, when it had come to them doing it together – only Nicolò’s eyes were so intense, his expression one of severe concentration as he watched Yusuf’s finger slide in and out of his body.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf murmured and Nicolò surged up, kissing the inside of Yusuf’s knee. He caught Yusuf’s wrist in an iron grip, Yusuf’s finger still half inside.

“May I?” he asked and Yusuf sighed.

“Please.”

Nicolò grinned, just once, and then he pulled Yusuf’s hand back, slowly, stroking over the pulse point on his wrist before he let go. “I see you have been having some fun without me,” he murmured.

Yusuf shrugged, clutching at the sheets when Nicolò bit a mark onto his thigh. “I do not know what you mean.”

“I know one thing you could _not_ have tried.”

Yusuf frowned at that, lifting up to see–

Only to let out a gasping breath when Nicolò licked the flat of his tongue over Yusuf’s hole. 

No, he had _of course_ never tried this; the thought had not even crossed his mind. Nicolò appeared to be aware of this fact – his eyes glittered when Yusuf met his gaze, and he parted Yusuf with both hands to get deeper, his tongue making Yusuf’s hole flutter. 

He dipped in and out, sometimes absently moving to bite Yusuf’s ass, sometimes nosing up towards his cock. His cock, which was filling rapidly under Nicolò’s ministrations, despite the fact that neither of them had touched it yet.

Yusuf could not. He could do nothing but clutch at the sheets and try, desperately, not to rock down against Nicolò’s face. His toes curled when Nicolò scraped his teeth over his hole and he moaned when he soothed the sudden shock of sensation with his tongue. Nicolò reached, clumsily, for the oil, and Yusuf could do nothing to help him.

He pulled back for a moment, just to unfasten the container, and Yusuf forced himself onto his elbows so he could watch. Nicolò’s lips were red and swollen, his breathing coming fast, and Yusuf caught him by the chin. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò warned when he leant in, but Yusuf ignored him, chased the taste of himself on Nicolò’s tongue. Nicolò groaned and went boneless against him – just for a second – but then he had the oil open and ran his free hand over Yusuf’s chest in an attempt to get him to lie back on the bed.

“Get up here,” Yusuf said. “The floor will do nothing for your knees.”

Nicolò snorted but climbed onto the bed agreeably enough. Yusuf settled back against the pillows – much better this way, as now he had a mostly unobstructed view of the proceedings – and Nicolò knelt between his legs, slicking up three fingers on his right hand.

Three. Yusuf had not tried that before, but when he looked to Nicolò’s cock, also almost hard again, he understood the need. Nicolò had promised never to hurt him and he was not exactly poorly endowed. 

They kissed again and Nicolò rubbed his forefinger against Yusuf’s hole as his tongue mapped out Yusuf’s mouth. Nicolò breached him, ever so slowly, and Yusuf shuddered, pushed back for more. 

“Slowly,” Nicolò murmured, like he might to calm a scared horse. “We have all the time in the world.”

They did, but it meant nothing to Yusuf as Nicolò began thrusting that clever finger in and out. It felt similar to what he had done to himself – but also it was not like that at all; he groaned when Nicolò crooked his finger, dragging against him, inside, and when Nicolò’s second finger slowly joined the first, he had a moment where he sincerely did not know how Nicolò’s cock would fit.

Nicolò flicked his tongue over one of Yusuf’s nipples and Yusuf lifted his head.

“Are you ready for more?” 

“Yes, Nicolò, please…” 

Nicolò blew over the wet path he had left and Yusuf felt the pressure of another finger at his entrance. At some point, Nicolò had straddled one of Yusuf’s thighs and his cock slid against his skin, the hairs there. The way was already slick but Nicolò did not seem interested in that. Instead, he watched as his third finger slowly slipped inside Yusuf’s hole, and Yusuf moaned. He felt _full,_ in a way he had never managed alone, the angle always a little too odd. 

“Talk to me, my love,” Nicolò said. He thrust his fingers in and out slowly and Yusuf clenched experimentally around them.

“Feels so good,” Yusuf replied. He could come like this, he realised, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach. “Feel full of you.”

Nicolò’s eyes darkened but he did not lean down for another kiss. He kept up his maddeningly slow pace for a while until Yusuf was walking the edge – if Nicolò were to touch his cock, he knew he would come, never mind filling him with his own…

Nicolò removed his fingers all at once and Yusuf whined at the loss. He was already there, kissing Yusuf’s brow, hushing him with gentle whispers. 

“I want you,” Yusuf said, almost a sob, and he had not realised it would all feel like _this._

“I know, I know. I just need this…”

He grabbed one of the pillows and coaxed Yusuf into lifting his hips, sliding it beneath. Yusuf watched, eyes half-lidded, as Nicolò slicked up his cock, but when Nicolò tried to turn him over, Yusuf shook his head.

“It will be easier if you–”

Yusuf hooked a leg around Nicolò’s and pulled, knocking him to his hands and knees, above Yusuf. Their cocks dragged together and Yusuf groaned.

“I would see you, Nicolò.”

Nicolò reached up, stroked his cheek. “Ah, amore mio, you always see me.”

Yusuf had nothing to say to that, but it mattered little, as Nicolò had settled above him, one hand either side of Yusuf’s shoulders. He reached down and grasped his own cock, stroking it to coat it in oil, and then he was moving forward, the blunt head pressing against Yusuf’s hole…

Yusuf turned his face away, looked up at the ceiling. It was not that he did not want to watch, it was only… he did not trust himself to do so. He wanted Nicolò in him before he had come, wanted to come on his cock, and he had not realised he was speaking until Nicolò let out a pained groan.

Of course, Nicolò’s cock was thicker than his fingers, even three of them, and Yusuf breathed deep as he breached that first ring of muscle. Nothing about it hurt; he stretched to accommodate his love, and as Nicolò rocked gently, sliding in ever deeper, Yusuf gasped for breath, so full of this man and his cock and his adoration. Nicolò’s jaw was set and when Yusuf looked at him, he recognised that Nicolò was holding back in every line of his body.

He shifted, knocking Nicolò in deeper and they both groaned in surprise. 

“Do not rush me,” Nicolò chided. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

Yusuf laughed because sometimes he was _impossible._ “You could not. I just want…”

He lifted his legs, wrapped them around Nicolò’s back. His heels dug into Nicolò’s skin and Nicolò pressed his hand into one of Yusuf’s shoulders. “Yusuf…”

“I promise, Nicolò, I feel nothing but pleasure, just fill me, _please.”_

That seemed to do the trick; Nicolò pushed in deeper, still not going quickly, but he did not rock in and out so much. Maybe it was hours, maybe it was seconds, but then Yusuf was _full_ of him, Nicolò inside as deep as he could go and they both let out heavy, long breaths.

When Yusuf met his gaze, Nicolò’s eyes were shining. “You feel…”

Yusuf wriggled and Nicolò’s eyes fluttered shut. He wanted to feel this forever, but then he also wanted Nicolò to move; he had enjoyed a sample of that friction earlier and now he wanted the real thing. 

Nicolò kissed him. Yusuf pushed up into it, and that had his hips move again, forcing Nicolò out a little way. Nicolò growled in response and tugged on Yusuf’s hair, forcing his head back down to the pillows. When Yusuf licked his lips, Nicolò tracked the movement.

“Allow me,” Nicolò said and Yusuf’s cock was dripping pre-come onto his belly because Nicolò had to have said that to him a thousand times now, before dinner when pulling out his chair, or when offering his hand to help Yusuf step over something blocking their path, or in the midst of an attack when dispatching a zombie inches away from tearing out his throat; but he had never heard the words in _that_ tone, that dark, delicious thing that made every inch of his skin spark in response.

“Yes,” he replied but he still crossed his legs at the ankle, behind Nicolò’s back, and Nicolò thrust all the way back in, in response.

Nicolò took his hands, laced their fingers together before he pushed Yusuf’s back into the sheets, and then he moved, dragging almost all the way out before he pushed back in, his right cheek pressed up against Yusuf’s. Yusuf panted into the warm air of the bedroom – _their_ bedroom – and once he had adjusted to how it felt, he pushed back, rolling down to meet Nicolò’s every thrust.

He had never been so close to anyone as this man and never so close to him as now, here, and it was not just about the act, the pleasure of it; it was the way he heard every hitch of Nicolò’s breath against the shell of his ear, the way Nicolò’s grip on his hands tightened or loosened, depending on how Yusuf pushed back against him. It was the way their bodies rippled together, clumsily at first, until they found the right rhythm, and then slick and smooth and perfect.

Yusuf thought it was the closest he would ever come to reading another person’s mind, to knowing them inside and out, and yet he still knew there was so much about Nicolò left to learn – they might have thousands of years together and he had no doubt he would spend most of his life a scholar, studying this one subject to the end of his days.

Like all moments, it could not last forever, but it was not any less sweet for it.

Yusuf turned his head, lips skimming Nicolò’s cheek and Nicolò met him, mouths catching before they withdrew. He lifted up slightly, changed the angle of his hips and _whatever_ he brushed against, inside, it lit all of Yusuf’s nerves aflame and he cried out so loud he thought they might hear it on the street.

For all he had been careful earlier in their lovemaking, Nicolò appeared to understand that Yusuf had the sense of it, now, and he brushed a kiss to Yusuf’s nose before he sat up. His hands moved to Yusuf’s hips and he pushed in hard, deep, hitting that spot on every other thrust. Yusuf braced himself against the headboard. He rocked back as much as he could but he wanted a hand on his cock – wanted _Nicolò’s_ hand on his cock – and he was not certain he had the capacity, right now, to ask for it.

Nicolò took pity on him, though he did not slow, and no sooner had he wrapped his fingers around Yusuf’s length, stroked him once, than Yusuf was coming, crying out, streaks landing on his chest. Nicolò did not stop moving and it was _so much,_ almost too much, but then he thrust in hard once, grinding his hips, and Yusuf was sure he felt Nicolò spill. Even if he had not, he recognised the beauty of it on his love’s face, and reached for him, brushing their lips together even as Nicolò moaned.

They remained that way, for a heartbeat or two, Yusuf’s hands on Nicolò’s face, their foreheads resting together. They were both breathing harshly, and Yusuf did not care enough to catalogue every sensation he felt in his body; instead, he focused on the curl of satisfied pleasure that spread through him.

Nicolò kissed him once, then again, each one more coordinated than the last, and when he pulled out, Yusuf winced more at the feeling of loss than anything else. It was not as though Nicolò could hurt him, after all – not as though the pain would remain, if he did.

“How do you feel?” Nicolò asked. He traced over invisible marks that otherwise would have stayed for days, and Yusuf felt Nicolò’s come spill from him, now. It was an odd feeling and he wrinkled his nose.

“Good,” he said. “Better than good. I am not–”

Nicolò _beamed_ at him. “All your beautiful words and this is what I have reduced you to?”

Yusuf laughed into their next kiss, dragging Nicolò to lie down beside him. “You reduce me to a senseless man on many the occasion,” he said, tracing mindless patterns over Nicolò’s chest. “You should hardly be surprised to have done it now.”

“I am surprised every time,” Nicolò countered and Yusuf propped himself up on one elbow, looked at him and realised he was. 

“Well,” he said, pinching one of Nicolò’s nipples just hard enough to elicit a gasp, “We really should find more opportunities to repeat the experience. Train you out of that.”

Nicolò smiled. He pushed Yusuf’s curls back from his eyes, scratched his fingers through Yusuf’s beard. “Oh, I am not certain that will ever happen, caro.” His smile turned mischievous. “But, you have a good point. We should certainly make a most valiant effort.”

Yusuf laughed against his shoulder and they lay together on the bed for a while, after.

***

The next week passed in a haze. They did not bless every room of the house immediately – not quite – but Yusuf did not pass up the opportunity to get his tongue inside Nicolò after lunch one day, and Nicolò took Yusuf in the sitting room one evening, slow and relaxed, a decadent event that went on for hours. 

They ate, and they loved each other, and a week later Nicolò mentioned that they really should visit the Zammits, now that Marija and her family had come to the island, so they did that too. It was not that Yusuf did not enjoy the time they spent with them; it was only difficult to keep his mind from what he and Nicolò had been doing, mere hours before.

Still, Nicolò was company enough for the both of them, securing a walk through the town with Marija and her husband, Vinċenz, a few days later. Yusuf agreed amiably when asked, and later, back in the dark of their bedroom, Nicolò took him in his mouth and then, even later than that, warned him that he would have to be a little more alert when it was just the four of them.

Yusuf slept with his face buried against Nicolò’s neck and only had one nightmare that night, brief enough that he woke, realised Nicolò was, in fact, still in his arms, and was happy enough to succumb to sleep again.

They met Marija and Vinċenz near the docks. Yusuf liked being so close to the ocean, although he knew Nicolò had a great distrust of the waves, and Marija appeared to be of a similar mind. Nicolò had said they could tell her everything and so Yusuf described his childhood in Tunis, watching the ships arrive, full of traders, and she responded in kind. 

They were some way behind their husbands, Vinċenz apparently as taciturn as Nicolò could be, should the mood strike him, but their silence appeared to be companionable enough. 

“I know my mother was worried Nicolò would be alone forever,” Marija said, apropos of nothing. Yusuf had been doing his best not to look at Nicolò, almost, in order to keep his focus on their new friends, but apparently she had other ideas.

“She said he had never brought anyone here.”

Marija nodded. “The last time I saw him, I was a child,” she replied. “My mother frets, you see. And she knows Nicolò is far older than her, of course, but I think once I married, she started to see him as a stray thing. She says he looks happier, with you.”

Yusuf smiled because he appreciated her noticing and because he knew it to be true. “I am glad he has had your family for so long,” he replied.

“Did he tell you how he came to find us?” 

“No.”

Marija smiled. “Some ancestor of mine killed him. By accident, Nicolò insists. But the poor man was so stricken by what he had done that when Nicolò woke again, he believed he was to be dragged from this world.”

“I can imagine the feeling,” Yusuf said. After everything, his memories of Nile’s death were far sharper than his memories of his own. 

When Marija turned to look at him, her expression sharpened. “Oh.”

“It is a strange thing to see, when you do not know it will happen. Strange anyway, I imagine.”

“You sound as though you have done it a lot, and yet you said it has only been, what, eleven years?”

Yusuf hummed. He did not mind her asking, truly, but he could not deny that the memories dampened his mood somewhat. “I had a bad time of it, at first,” he said because he did not wish to ruin her day. “But all that is in the past, now.” 

He looked past her, to Nicolò. He and Vinċenz had stopped – Vinċenz was pointing out at a ship and whatever he said had Nicolò nodding. 

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Marija asked, and when he turned back to her, she shrugged. “To be in love.”

Yusuf laughed, which drew Nicolò’s eyes to him – if only for a moment. “Yes, it does.”

They walked on a little further, moving out to a stretch where no boats were docked. The fishermen were still out, this early, and Marija began to tell Yusuf stories of the island, how they kept the zombies from their shores, as well as legends that he was certain he could have Nicolò verify, later.

There was a sudden shout, a splash, and they both turned toward the noise. 

Yusuf ran to the edge of the docks and saw a small child in the water, but Nicolò was faster, had already shrugged off his jacket and jumped in. Marija grabbed Yusuf’s arm. “The child can probably swim,” she said.

Yusuf already knew Nicolò had reacted on instinct; his uneasiness around the water extended far past himself. And, indeed, the child was not struggling when Nicolò reached her, but he still pulled her from the water, where she ran into the arms of a concerned-looking parent.

Nicolò climbed out of the water, taking Vinċenz’s offered hand, and Yusuf’s mouth went dry. He was, of course, extraordinarily proud of his husband for saving a child’s life. Even if the child did not _require_ rescue; he was particularly proud that Nicolò had faced down whatever scared him about the water to risk it anyway.

He wanted Nicolò to know that, as they rushed over, Marija exclaiming that the child should have been more careful, and Nicolò was lucky it was so warm here, he would be dry soon–

Nicolò’s shirt was white, was the crux of the matter. And it meant that, having jumped into the water, his shirt was now also entirely see-through, clinging to his arms and his chest and everywhere else it touched.

Yusuf thought, very seriously, that he might pass out, mostly because no one appeared to be noticing this but him.

“Yusuf?” Nicolò asked, almost concerned, and Yusuf cleared his throat before he spoke.

“We should… You need to change,” he said, and he could not stop his eyes wandering. “You are alright?”

“I am fine,” Nicolò said and _oh,_ he had noticed the change in Yusuf’s voice, because his eyes had gone dark and the twitch of his lips was nothing but an invitation. “But yes, I do not particularly wish to spend the rest of the day in wet clothes. Could we join you for dinner, instead?”

Marija looked between them and nodded quickly and when Vinċenz asked, “Tonight?”, she shook her head.

“Tomorrow,” she said. The smile she levelled at Yusuf was soft and knowing and yes, Yusuf rather liked her, actually. 

He was not certain how long it took them to get back to the house, or even how they made it there; Yusuf had enough trouble keeping his hands to himself along the way. But then they were inside, removing their boots by the door because Yusuf knew that once he touched Nicolò he would not be able to stop.

“There’s oil in the kitchen,” Nicolò said. They had not done anything in there yet, mostly because Nicolò had a tendency to vanish in between bouts of lovemaking and then return with a plate of food for them to share. The few times he had prepared full meals, he had insisted Yusuf remain somewhere else – and Yusuf had agreed, suspecting that Nicolò did not wish to indulge so close to the food.

It would appear, today, that he did not mind much at all.

“Go,” Yusuf said and Nicolò’s eyes softened before he did. The shirt clung to his back, too, Yusuf noted, though it had dried some on the way over, and he groaned, taking a moment to lean back against the wall. He rubbed, once, over the bulge in his pantaloons. He should have worn his sirwal, perhaps, to hide it – but then he had not expected any of this when he had dressed; he had intended to be on his very best behaviour. 

Once he was sure he was under control, Yusuf followed Nicolò’s path into the kitchen. Nicolò had his back to him, was looking out of the small window. The bottle of oil rested near his right arm.

Yusuf had not been inside him yet. He wanted it now, wanted it enough to crawl out of his own skin from the sheer _need._ He was not inclined to drag it out, either; not after watching Nicolò face his fear, rescue a child…

Look like _that._

He stepped up behind Nicolò and grasped his hips, pulling him back so he could feel how hard Yusuf was against him. Nicolò let out a jagged moan. 

“I want you,” Yusuf said and could not hide the bite to his voice. “Now.”

Nicolò chuckled, his head dropping forward. “Take me, my love. Your eyes on me… Dio aiutami, I do not think I have ever been so hard.”

Yusuf bit his shoulder, moved one hand down to feel – and Nicolò gasped, hips jerking into his grip. 

It felt, suddenly, as though there was no time to waste. Yusuf grappled with the fastenings of Nicolò’s pantaloons, then his own, pushing down Nicolò’s over the curve of his ass. Nicolò was panting harshly, even though they had hardly touched, and Yusuf could only be grateful that he felt the same, that this immediate insistent need was echoed, feeding back between the two of them. 

He slicked his fingers, spilling more oil than he should, and when he traced down Nicolò’s crease, Nicolò pushed back against him. He did his best to be gentle, slowing when Nicolò gasped, but Nicolò did not stop moving, urging him in, deeper, and Yusuf added a second finger in rapid succession, mouthing at the back of Nicolò’s neck as he came undone under his hands.

“That’s enough, hayati, I swear it…” 

It was only two fingers, Yusuf was unsure, but Nicolò turned his head, pulled him in for a kiss that was uncoordinated, more panting into each other’s mouths than anything else, and Yusuf found himself convinced by the argument.

He slicked his cock, groaning at the feeling of his own hand, and then lined himself up. He paused, once, left hand on Nicolò’s hip, and stroked small circles with his thumb.

Nicolò looked over his shoulder at Yusuf and his eyes were blown entirely dark, his cheeks flushed. “Fuck me, Yusuf,” he said, and Yusuf let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding before he began to push inside.

He had not known anything to be so hot, or so tight, and when Nicolò clenched around him, Yusuf threw his head back and cursed. Nicolò had braced himself against the counter and Yusuf kept going, kept pushing until he was fully inside.

It was more than he could have imagined – and he was not certain, for a moment, which way he liked it best. He realised it did not matter when Nicolò groaned, rocking his hips minutely. 

“Tell me if you do not like it,” Yusuf murmured and kissed the back of his neck.

Nicolò let out a full-throated chuckle. “The only thing I dislike, right now, is how little you are moving.”

Yusuf dragged out, then thrust back in, and there was so much to explore this way around, too, because he desperately wanted to bury himself in that tight heat, but he also wanted to keep rocking, shift until he found that spot inside Nicolò that Nicolò found, unerringly, inside him.

Nicolò was bracing himself with one hand, now, the other on his own cock, and Yusuf could not take it slowly. Not with the way he was moving, the small, almost pained sounds he was making, and so he tightened his grip on Nicolò’s hips and snapped his own forward in short, shallow thrusts. 

With a groan, Nicolò lowered himself so that he was almost bent over the counter, one hand still working terribly fast over his own cock, and Yusuf planted a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him lower. When he had Nicolò’s face resting against the cool marble, he returned his hand to its place on Nicolò’s hip and Nicolò whimpered when he thrust in especially deep.

“Are you close?” Yusuf asked and Nicolò nodded.

“So close. Want you to come first though, habibi, please.”

Yusuf could fulfil that request; he did not take his eyes from Nicolò’s face as he chased his need for Nicolò, his sharp want of his body and mind and soul, and he pushed, rocking his hips against Nicolò’s ass when he felt his orgasm building. His hips twitched once, twice, as he came, filling Nicolò with his come, and Nicolò bit his lip, never slowing his hand until he came, too.

Yusuf draped himself over Nicolò’s back until they had both caught their breath. 

“You have certainly found a most effective way to cure my anxiety of the ocean,” Nicolò said sometime later. 

Yusuf closed his eyes but smiled. Nicolò’s clothes were still damp and they had not separated – everything was beginning to gain an edge of discomfort – but there was something so relaxing about this.

“I do not know what came over me,” Yusuf said, lied, because it had to be apparent to anyone with eyes just what had come over him.

Nicolò chuckled. “And here I was, thinking I could be rewarded like this again.”

Yusuf kissed him because he had not done so for a minute or more and also, because he could.

***

Three months into their stay in Malta, the letter arrived. It was addressed to both of them, but Nicolò recognised Nile’s handwriting as well as Yusuf did and handed it off to him in the first instance. 

“You can open things addressed to you, you know,” Yusuf replied. He was stretched out on one of the settees, his shirt half-open, and Nicolò crawled over him for a moment before he sat back at the opposite end.

“If it is from Nile, it is most likely for you.”

Yusuf rolled his eyes but did not reply to that. It would take time, he knew, for Nicolò to recognise that Nile loved him as well. It was not something Yusuf could rush. He had not been there, after all.

He opened the letter, read it – and then frowned and read it again.

“What has happened?” Nicolò asked. His hand was a warm weight around Yusuf’s ankle.

“Nile has left,” Yusuf replied. When he looked up, Nicolò appeared confused. 

“Left?”

“Left Tunis. Left Andromache and Le Livre there. She says… she says she thought she could manage without us but she cannot, so she is striking out on her own for a while.”

He realised he sounded slightly panicked and Nicolò’s thumb stroked his ankle bone gently. “She does not want to see us?”

Yusuf shook his head, reading the letter a third time. “No. No, she will see us. Once she has settled somewhere, she says she will write us, if she thinks we are still in Malta – otherwise, she will write Copley and Leyla. She just does not wish to see Andromache and Le Livre, not for a while.”

“How long is a while?” Nicolò asked.

Yusuf frowned. “A century.”

Nicolò merely blinked in response. Yusuf was glad for his sister’s reassurance that she would see them, meet with them, because a century sounded like sheer torture. 

“Has she told them?” Nicolò asked next.

“Yes. Left them a note. Do you think they will be alright, if we leave them alone?”

Truly, he had not wanted any of the outside world – but particularly _this_ discussion – to infiltrate this quiet, happy space, but there was nothing to be done for it now. 

“They will endure,” Nicolò said. “I have to admit, I was thinking exile would be a good punishment, but for _them_ and perhaps not one hundred years.”

“Nile needs the space, I think,” Yusuf replied. “She removes herself, sometimes, when she sees no other solution to a problem.”

“Only she is not the problem.”

“No.”

Yusuf’s anger at Le Livre, his despair at not seeing Nile and Nicolò and his family for so long, welled up all at once, and then Nicolò was atop him, above him, his hands steadying and gentle. Yusuf sighed into his kiss, the hollow darkness receding but not disappearing, not completely. 

“We will write back to her tomorrow,” Nicolò said, prising the letter from Yusuf’s hands and setting it on the small table next to the settee. “And we will meet her as often as we can, even if that means we follow her around like lost puppies.”

Yusuf laughed quietly. “Alright,” he agreed. “And the others?”

“I shall write to them,” Nicolò said. “I am not certain how long I will not see them for but… I think time apart will be a good thing.” 

Yusuf doubted Nicolò would remain apart from Andromache and Le Livre for a century. He might manage Le Livre, perhaps, if Yusuf insisted – but he had known Andromache almost the entire time he had been alive; and Yusuf would not insist, besides.

“Tomorrow, then,” Yusuf said. 

“Tomorrow,” Nicolò replied, and kissed him, and under his lips, his hands, his ever-loving, ever gentle touch, the outside world receded again, leaving behind nothing but what they both deserved:

Each other.


End file.
